Chapter 574: Toward That Remote, Rural Backwater (6)

Once you pass Dujiangyan—the Central Plains’ greatest irrigation, reservoir, and flood-control works, which we’d swung by once before—the first gate on the way to Qinghai, Wenchuan County, is said to come into view.

Strictly speaking, it had been in view the whole time.

From Chengdu onward, a range lay like a folding screen across the distance, blocking the eye.

It refused to respect near and far, never seeming to draw closer, and then, once we were past Dujiangyan and at the mouth of Wenchuan County—hmm.

Qing takes a moment to reflect that maybe she’d underestimated the mountains of the Central Plains.

This is not terrain you “pass through while being carried,” is it. What am I supposed to do about the shame of it.

But it isn’t Qing’s fault.

Back home the mountains were low and round; it is never easy to change what childhood presses into you.

“Heh-heh! Don’t fret so. It’s been less than a hundred years since they laid the new road—surprisingly passable. It isn’t yet time for you to climb, so be at ease.”

Our guide, Yang Sangguja, looks every inch a man who might at any time flip into a highway bandit.

His laughter is light and wicked; his gait lists crooked, shoulders rolling, a slouching swagger; and his speech, while phrased as polite, lands anything but—exactly the frivolity you’d expect from the lightest breed of street layabout.

“Mmm. I’m not the one doing the carrying. Yi, you alright? Should I swap you with Hee-mae?”

“Yes. No.”

“Kyah, this is just like when the young lord collapsed from overwork the other day. For about a week Yeon Pa carried him about like that, didn’t she now. And the young lord sat there in those arms with a face clear as a cloud, as if it were the most natural thing. Extraordinary folk must be different, I suppose.”

What he intends to say is that our meddlesome prince and this fellow would get on like a house on fire.

But to Qing’s ear—what? Is he calling me brazen for letting myself be carried?

Had Yeon Pa seen this display, she’d have snapped, “This cur is saying cur-barked nonsense!” and smacked his back on the spot, stamping him with the Dread Revolving Hell of Space-Time.

Yeon Pa isn’t here; Yang Sangguja, pleased to have “made a connection,” carries on, meaning no harm—he was simply born this way.

Once we were on mountain path, Qing had thought it best to make Hee-mae—our most seasoned Stand, and, if we are generous, truly, truly as generous as one can be, just barely worthy of calling a master—take exclusive charge of carrying.

But Gunyeong flatly refused and insisted on taking turns, so what can you do.

Thankfully, there was a road—a claybed packed hard—running through the canyon where two grand ridgelines meet.

Boatmen of the river tribes, ferrying freight on rafts and nursing the current with care, gave us each a once-over as they slid past: What are Central Plains folk doing here this season?

Thus, the first day, we kept to the highway along the water and rode the gorge straight up. Nothing particularly perilous about the stage.

Then a broad reach of riverside opened, and—people will live anywhere—there a small village presented itself.

That would be Wenchuan County proper: the lone Central Plains–style settlement in the area, where the county magistrate sits.

“If you keep following the river up, there’s Jiuzhaigou—ah, it’s unbelievable up there. In all my life—ah, really, ah, I’m not much for words so I can’t put it right, but once you pass Huanglong Valley and look down on the Five-Color Pond, kyah—ah—it’s that kind of supreme view I’m saying.”

“Huanglong Valley? Five-Color Pond? In the end that’s a valley and a lake, no? I don’t mean it’s nothing. It’s just—there are valleys and lakes everywhere.”

“That’s not the kind of valley you’re thinking of. Thousands of pools laid like steps flowing long, the water a clear blue-green—one of the Central Plains’ famous scenes, called an immortal’s realm brought to the human world.”

“Oh! San? You’ve been there?”

“Khmm. Just heard of it, passing by.”

So you don’t just pick up snacks as you pass; you pick up other people’s talk, too.

Qing thinks: Huh. If San from far-off Hebei has heard of it, it must be very famous. But how do ponds lay themselves like steps?

In truth, the roads are harsh and Jiuzhaigou hides at the very heights; it’s a vista only the knowing know.

There’s no reason a man like Peng Daesan—living far afield—should know it, unless he’d gone out of his way to squeeze the jesters who double as newsmongers of the Central Plains: “Headed to Sichuan—any outrageous scene worth showing off?”

“Oh. Now I’m looking forward to it. We can see it on the way, yes?”

“Ah, young lady? That’s the road to Sword Pavilion. Go that way and you’ll drop into Hanzhong.”

“Eh? What. Then why bring it up?”

“I was merely telling you such a place exists, was I not?”

“No, who points it out only to say we’re not going! Is that how you do this?”

Qing is agog.

It’s like hiring a guide who says, “Over there is a truly stunning attraction—however, we shan’t be going. I’ve seen it; it’s marvelous; you won’t.” If we won’t go, then don’t tell us in the first place.

Or else say from the start: there’s another attraction that way; not on our route, but I’ll explain it and you can go later.

Can this guide be trusted?

After a night in Wenchuan County, we struck east and began the true climb, riding the ridged hills of the gorge.

Up we went, and up and up again—always higher, always further—and still on both sides only harsher mountains, peaks higher than where we set our feet.

From Yang Sangguja we hear: the baseline height is fifteen hundred jang, with several peaks reaching two thousand.

Wait—two thousand jang? How does a mountain thrust to two thousand jang?

The upper reaches glitter white. That would be perpetual snow—the sign of a cold that never thaws.

In the end, Jayu’s thoughtfulness proved a great help.

A guide is only as good as what he guides.

A true master of Lightness Skill would not waste himself as a mere guide for petty coin.

And no one in our party stood below Yang Sangguja in realm, so how great the aid to be guided along a warrior’s road at a warrior’s pace.

If one among us must be named as hobbling the pace—it isn’t Seol Iri. It’s Qing.

Being carried, one must keep from jostling, and so we cannot simply dash. A proper burden, that’s what I am.

Past Yixian, climbing the mountain road along the Maiji River, we turned north—and, all at once, the vast Ruoergai Great Grassland opened.

Not a grassland, a Great Grassland.

In the Central Plains, you do not attach the character “Great” unless the size beggars attempt.

So how wide is the Ruoergai Great Grassland that calls itself Great without blush?

In the native measure of my people—converted to Yeouido—it is eleven thousand one hundred Yeouidos; in the larger unit of Seoul, roughly fifty Seouls—fifty Seouls of land; about three-tenths the size of Qing’s home country.

“If you keep following the river straight up and swing round where the mountains block you, you’ll be in Qinghai. Following the water is child’s play—you could manage without me, eh? Even a child with no martial skill could do that much; hardly worth asking.”

That same incorrigible flippancy.

The man himself is deferential; his manner of speech is not.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave. I would see you all the way to Kunlun, but I’ve someone even more important to attend.”

“You’ve worked hard. Thanks to you we came in comfort.”

“My lady here would have been comfortable in any case, I wager, heh-heh. Your praise flatters me.”

Even to the end, not a syllable in his tone that doesn’t invite a slap.

The rest is so easy a child could find it—so the less-important folk may go on their way—she won’t be walking under her own power anyway.

But from Chengdu to here is already ten and a half days; and in all that time, what we have seen of Yang Sangguja is that this is simply how he talks.

No malice—just a mouth.

Accustomed now to his manner, Qing gives him a glance, and at last steps onto the soil of Qinghai (though still technically in Sichuan)—without actually putting her feet to the ground.

Ten and a half days to cover a mere six hundred li might seem unworthy of warriors.

But we stand now at an elevation of one thousand jang; we have climbed for ten days straight; and one among us has not so much as walked on her own—by any measure, an extraordinary pace.

Mount Tai and Mount Song stand five hundred jang; stack Song upon Tai and you have our elevation now.

That fearsome Mount Hua is only seven hundred jang—so one sees how high Qinghai’s land thrusts up.

Thus we come to Hongyuan Grassland in the southern Ruoergai Great Grassland.

The buildings that appear here and there are single- or two-story, square, brick-walled boxes.

The better-kept facilities are painted white or yellow-gold; and peculiarly, along the upper facades runs a neat row of white circles on a dark brown ground—a striking ornament that catches the eye.

Qing is a carpenter enough to notice the buildings first.

The specialty of the Ruoergai Great Grassland is the yak.

Boiled yak meat sliced thick; yak stir-fry, tossed almost like a quick deep-fry and served with fermented sauce; sour-milk yogurt from yak’s milk.

This is why one travels.

Except—

This is a great grassland with few guests; inns and proper eateries are scarce. Wherever you go: boiled yak, grilled yak, yak soup.

The trouble with a countryside without cities.

There are no master chefs, no restaurants; when guests come, the whole village puts on a modest feast.

And if the guest is pretty, and if the silver she proffers is no trifling sum—

To make it as grand as can be, they set aside the everyday vegetables and bring out meat in honor, and so you cannot very well say you’re sick of it.

Qing, of course, does not sicken.

Meat is always right.

Her friends, however, pick and peck: what, are we holding a memorial service in front of meat?

Come evening, after the meal, a clay jar of liquor is set on the ground and the whole village gathers to drink by straw.

Not by cups, but each with one’s own straw; the guests sip first in rank order, then the men by age, then the women by age; once the round is done, they add water to fill the jar again.

Thus the liquor turns into water, round by round, and when the cycle dissolves the drinking ends: a peculiar culture of spirits.

As the drink weakens with each round, perhaps the intoxication never deepens? A pity for the hard drinkers.

There being no legal age for drink yet in the Central Plains, even the little ones come out with sparkling eyes.

Future champions of the cup labor to suck the longest pull through their straws—adorable, really.

In this way we call at small hamlets and, sometimes, tent-villages driven by yak herds, and trace the winding tributaries of the Baihe upstream.

At one point a great watercourse appears—the Yellow River, source of the Baihe, one of the four great rivers of the Central Plains.

Winter is near; the grasses are yellow and the ground iron-cold, and yet the pastoral vista of the plateau warms the heart.

Where the Yellow River loops and then throws itself eastward, a proper wall of mountains stretches left and right to the north like a city rampart, blocking the road.

At the rim of the Ruoergai Great Grassland, on the boundary with Qinghai Province, a small city comes into view: Nima—also called Nima Town for its perch on the riverbank.

It is where freight enters from Gansu, and, as a riverside port from which the Yellow River can be ridden down toward Sichuan, it cannot help but be prosperous.

And what does a prosperous town have?

Baths! A bath! Hot water!

So, though it’s still a bit early, we take rooms; we fill our bellies, for once, with Central Plains–style food; and ask the inn servant about the road.

“Guests, is Qinghai new to you?”

“Yes. Is it that obvious?”

“Ah, I thought so. When you said you meant to cross the Rangnapcheong range, I wondered.”

“Ah—might there be a problem?”

“The river folk cross it well enough. If you look carefully, you’ll see the path. But there are no homesteads on the way—shouldn’t you prepare in earnest?”

There is, it seems, a mountain path used by the river tribes, but there are no households along the way until you reach Hainan County in northern Qinghai.

Meaning: you must sleep in the open.

“Ah. In that case, could I ask you to help us prepare?”

“Mm. The times are unsettled; better not to go, truth be told. A band of brigands has set itself up around Hainan County.”

“Brigands?”

“Villains without conscience. They don’t just take goods; they seize people as toll and carry them off, they say. A pack worth slaughtering.”

Hainan County is the sole town one can enter from the south into Qinghai Province—the throat from Sichuan and Gansu into southern Qinghai.

Brigands have jammed themselves into such a place.

Freight has thinned and prices risen; by all accounts the public temper thereabouts is dark and dangerous these days.

“For my part, I’d gladly outfit you—it would put a profit in my pocket. But who would send you knowingly onto a harsh pass? Best you go down into Gansu. You said you were bound for Xining—then ascend from Lanzhou, why not?”